Red Cross violets
by shadowowls14
Summary: A story from my Mom.
The dress was a World War II Red Cross uniform, collar and cuffs still smoothed by starch, perfectly pressed after almost 70 years of neglect. In the wreckage of the abandoned building, it was as out of place as an orchid in Alaska. Perfect condition, except the lack of the belt. Around this orchid resembled the aftermath of a hurricane. Cluttered with careless disregard, papers vomiting out across every horizontal surface the room was so wretchedly destroyed that the dress seemed almost supernatural. I picked it up and to my delight, it seemed to be my size. What a surprise for Ben to see me in a nurse's uniform. He had a weakness for costumes, and I wanted to see his reaction. Clutching it to my chest, I told him to meet me in the auditorium on the uppermost floor of the school. He glanced up from a heap of twisted metal and rotting rope, his green eyes darkened quizzically. I shivered under his earthy gaze until he nodded, a sly grin catching the corner of his full lips.

It was when I was ascending the dark stairway to the top floor that I caught the ghost of a scent. Frail and sweet, dry and earthy, the strange odor wound around my face, invading my nose. I stopped, shaking my head. The smell made me feel funny, not quite sick but off somehow. The scent disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving a sense of danger. Until now, I had been completely unafraid as I explored. Odd to feel fear this far into the visit. I dismissed the feeling as just a combination of atmosphere and nerves. I paused at the final step and looked through the rippling panes of the window, surprised at what I saw.

Outside, the sky was no longer the pale blue of a clear November afternoon. The light was dimmer, the sky a strange blend of brown and gray. The stubbled fields of ocher yellow had not changed, nor had the inky brilliance of the persistent green left in the grass—yet the whole landscape seemed suddenly void of color. A chill rippled my skin and a fleeting thought darted by me, escaping my full attention: " _Storm sky. You have to go now. Don't think, just run._ "

This school was in the middle of nowhere, and being the middle of November, how bad could any storm really be? True it is warm outside, but not THAT warm. I'm just spooked, that's all. Shrugging, I pushed past a tattered, rotting curtain of time stained canvas and opened the door to the dressing room.

It was a spacious room despite its small size. The north wall was a row of Romanesque arched windows, the bottom halves covered by a mass of fabric strung on clothesline. Another wall supported a built-in counter and row of mirrors with defunct light fixtures from ages past. I tossed my clothes onto a couch by the door, hoping that the mice who had chewed the stuffing out of the sides and cushions were long dead. I gingerly eased into the uniform which brushed against my now-bare legs and pressed gently against my stomach. As I fastened the small buttons the phantom scent returned, stronger now, definitely some kind of local flower. I had the feeling I should know what it was, that it meant something but I just couldn't reach it in my mind. Suddenly, I was dizzy, felt a little sick and that feeling of danger was much stronger. For a moment, I thought I might faint but the feelings stopped as soon as the dress collar was buttoned. I twisted my hair back in a tidy bun with some pins on the counter and used my own lipstick to turn my (very) pale lips a vivid red. In the dimmed eyes of the time-worn mirrors, I saw myself—completely unrecognizable as me, but rather as someone else. A lovely woman with dark hair and concern in her warm brown eyes. An ugly red welt circled her throat, and strange rust spots bloomed on the uniform. My hand flew to my own neck, eyes dropping to see the stains but there were none and when I looked up, I saw myself. In a very old dress, looking like something out of a movie. That and only that. There was no brown haired girl, I was alone and now I was scared.

The light from the windows was very dim now, and the wind had begun a mournful sobbing outside which cresendoed into a tortured scream, promising revenge in the storm to come. Fearful of the change in the weather and with the strange visions, I decided to go and get Ben so we could leave. Beg for a way out, if necessary, blame the storm. The anxiety was still there, but it wasn't from the wind or the hallucination. I was afraid of Ben, and that fear was almost paralyzing. I was convinced he was going to hurt me. I bit my lip hard and forced myself to focus. There was no way I was in any danger from my own boyfriend of six months. What an utterly absurd idea! I need to get a freakin' grip. This isn't a horror movie, there is no psycho with a chainsaw. No one is going to hurt me.

I stepped onto the stage, eyes rebelling against the lack of light and he wasn't there. Frantically, I searched the vast room, which was painted in deep shadows. No, there he is! He's right there at the end of the third row. Gratefully, I ran to him, flung my arms around his neck and begged him to take me home. I was shaking and tears snuck out of my eyes but he just stood there, unresponsive to my requests. I held his face in my hands and pulled it down to my eye level. The expression never changed. His metallic gray eyes gleamed like dull pewter in the dying light.

Pewter gray? Did I just think that? Ben has green eyes, not gray. What is going on? I start to back away when he finally moves. His hand snaps onto my wrist like a vise. I try to pull away, to run, to do anything. I opened my mouth to scream as his other hand fastens around my throat, sealing the cries off. Despite all my fighting and twisting, he drags me through the room, down the stairs and back to the office with no effort at all. My back touched the icy metal of the filing cabinet, and as Ben reached behind my head, the scent enveloped me like a fog. Violets. That's what it was, violet scented body powder, like my grandmother used to have. Yet there was more than violets now. Something sickly-sweet and metallic had twined itself with the brittle smell of the flowers. He has something around my throat now, some narrow band of fabric-wrapped agony. The belt of the dress, tattered and faded by time—the only part of this uniform that looked the age it was—and this monster wearing Ben's face was going to kill me with it. Spots of color dance in the darkening light. My ears are full of a guttural snarl that is growing strangely hard to hear. My lungs are on fire.

With the last breath in my body I make the wish. That this end with me, let me be the last girl to wear this cursed dress and die at the hands of a familiar stranger. Yet even as I gasp out my final word, I know I am the fifth girl to make this wish and I'm not to be the last. I know what the scent is. Violets, powder, sick-sweet fear and the overwhelming, metallic scent is death. "Not again," I whisper, fading fast.

"Please."

Angela couldn't believe her eyes. Lying across a filing cabinet in a trash filled room was a really cool vintage dress—looked like a nurse's uniform. And while it looked like it was brand new, it smelled like old perfume and there was no belt in the loops. James would go insane to see her strut around in that thing! She told him to meet her upstairs in five minutes and rushed up the stairs, pausing to look out the window. The sky, pale and strange all day, was a weird brown-gray. And that strange smell was back, flowers like old-lady perfume. And something else. The other smell was foreign to her nostrils, yet her mind screamed a riddle-encrypted recognition of the metallic scent. "Storm sky," the unfamiliar thought rose to her lips. She was unconscious of the words she barely whispered, "… just RUN."

Angela didn't listen either.


End file.
